


The Flashbacks

by 221bhannah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3630570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bhannah/pseuds/221bhannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes up to find he can't remeber the previous few weeks of his life, where he and John were abducted. Worse still, John is still missing, and nobody knows where he is. Sherlock must piece together the clues and remember his torture in order to find John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has already been posted on fanfiction.net but I wanted to post it here too :)

**Chapter 1: What happened?**

I can vaguely hear talking. It's between two people. One I have never heard before and one I feel I should know. For some reason, my mind can't process it properly. My eyes are still shut, so I lie in a dark daze. Wherever I am is soft and warm, safe. Slowly, though, I open my eyes, allowing bright white light to flood my pupils. The light is blinding and my eyes are taking longer than usual to adjust to it.

Suddenly, there is a clatter of footsteps coming towards me. I just make out the familiar voice saying "Oh! Thank God! Sherlock!".

My eyes slowly begin to focus and I turn my gaze towards the man, finally realising who it is: DI Lestrade.

"We were wondering if you would ever wake up after we found-" he stops abruptly, closing his mouth and glancing away momentarily.

I still can't really process what he says, although I feel it may be important to me for some unknown reason.

Then, I scan the room with my eyes, realising immediately that I'm in a private hospital room. The walls are white-washed, bringing me back to my long, dull days in rehab. Out of the corner of my eye, I can just make out a window, but I don't move to see out of it, instead, I stay stock still.

My attention is quickly brought back to Lestrade when he speaks again. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" He asks.

Of course I can, I think to myself. Somehow, I can't seem to make a reply. I swallow and open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

"Sherlock, say something." Lestrade almost begs.

Again, I try, but no words come.

"Give him time." The other man says.

I turn my gaze to him. He's clearly a doctor because he wears a (stereotypical) white coat and a stethoscope around his neck. The doctor has short brown hair and deep creases in his forehead. He isn't particularly tall, but is in good shape. The man walks over to the end of my bed, gets a out a clipboard and scribbles something down onto it.

Once finished, he looks at me again and asks "Thirsty?"

I suddenly notice the dryness of my mouth and throat. Every swallow feels like sandpaper. Why am I so thirsty? I try to speak once more but only a croak escapes my lips. Giving up on talking, I decide to nod instead. Big mistake. It sends a spark of pain down my spine and my head swims. I wince, causing concern to brush over Lestrade and the doctor's faces before they hide it quickly.

Seemingly ignoring my obvious pain, Lestrade reaches for a jug of water and fills a cup. Instead of handing it to me, he presses the plastic rim to my lips and gently tips it, allowing the cooling liquid to flow soothingly into my mouth. When I swallow, I can feel as the water rushes down my throat. The sandpaper feeling is gone, mostly.

Within seconds, the cup is empty. Lestrade reaches for the jug again but is stopped by the doctor, who mumbles a little too loudly "No more, it'll be too much of a shock to his system.", which further deepens my confusion.

Why have I been starved of water? The inspector nods and places the cup down on a small table to the right of my bed, before turning his attention back to me.

"Better?" He asks, before remembering I am unable to reply.

With perfect timing, the door to my room swings open and Mycroft swans in, umbrella in hand. He immediately looks over to me. For a millisecond, his eyes seem to light up as he sees mine are open, but he regains his mask almost immediately and says "Ah, awake at last, brother dear? You've been through quite a lot."I stare at him, genuinely baffled. What did he mean? What had I 'been through'? Out of the corner of my eye, I see the doctor shooting my elder brother an accusatory look.

Before I can find answers to these questions, I notice something: John isn't here. If anything has happened, I know John would be right there beside me, so where is he? Desperate for an explanation, I clear my throat and cough out his name, my voice weak and rasping. All three men turn to me.

"Sorry?" Mycroft asks, clearly, they didn't make out what I said, so I try again. I have a little more success this time.

"John?"

All three men shoot one another a look that I can't quite read, before they turn back to me.

"What about him?" Mycroft questions.

"Where?" Is all I can say in reply.

"He's...otherwise engaged." Mycroft says, with a pointed look on his face.

Then, another question hits me, and I struggle to cough it out, each word a little less painful than the last.

"Why... Am I...here?" I finally manage.

Another glance is exchanged between the men. "Sherlock" Mycroft begins, picking his words with extreme caution "what do you last remember?"The doctor gives a slight nod in Mycroft's direction.

I think for a few seconds. I remember pulling on my coat and scarf and leaving 221B in a hurry, although I cannot recall when or why. I remember someone calling my name, and then darkness. Nothing.

"I remember leaving Baker Street, with John, and hearing my name being called. That's it." I say, my voice sore, but fairly steady now.

Another exchanged look, with Mycroft raising his eyebrows at the other two.

"That's it?" He asks, staring me dead in the eye. "Where exactly does it stop?"

A little confused, and noticing my head beginning to throb, I reply "Our names were called..." I rack my brain, suddenly hearing a stifled cry from inside my head that sounds like John's. "... John tried to say something but was stopped... And then just blackness." I finish, looking at Mycroft with a questioning expression.

"How long ago do you think that was?" Ha asks, genuine concern on his face. I think for a moment, unsure, before half answering, half asking "Several days...maybe a week...?" I watch Mycroft's face closely.

He simply nods slowly before the doctor says "Probably ought to stop there. Can you feel any pain, Sherlock? Be honest, its important."

I try to lift my head, but cry out as shock-waves race across my body. Blood rushes through my skull, causing my brain to throb even more. Lestrade is forced to turn away, but Mycroft just stares at me, the slight pity in his eyes disgusts me. I try to lift my right hand instead but it feels like a dead weight, and pain creases across my face. All the dexterity from my fingers seems to be gone; my arm is still and aching.

Before I can try anything else, the doctor cries "Stop! Don't move, Sherlock. Stay exactly as you are." To be honest, I don't have much choice.

Whatever had happened to me, it must have been bad, so why couldn't I remember a thing? And why wasn't John here to explain it all? Why was everyone being so mysterious, with side-glances and almost silent murmurs?

Instead, I answer the doctor's question the easy way, although what I say is already obvious. "My head throbs, and it pains me to move anything."

With that, the doctor comes around to the left-hand side of my bed and presses a few buttons on a screen. Only then do I notice several IV lines in my left arm, connected to the machine. _They're drugging me up_.

Quickly, I ask "When will John visit?", but nobody seems to hear, or if they do, they ignore me completely.

Mycroft and Lestrade have their eyes dropped, unable to catch my gaze. There's definitely something they're not telling me, maybe more than one thing.

I feel the liquid flow into me, probably morphine.

"Just relax, close your eyes." The doctor says gently. I hardly need persuasion, my eyelids drop almost immediately and the drug swallows me back into a world of darkness and confusion. The only respite is feeling the throbbing in my head cease. I am empty. I am numb.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Black out  
  
When I wake, there are no voices. No secretive whispers. No exchanging glances. No raised eyebrows. Only the same white-washed walls of the hospital room. A sharp smell of disinfectant penetrates my nose.  
  
My brain is slow and foggy. The morphine brought relief, but also frustration. I need maximum brain power to figure out this mess, whatever it is.  
  
After a few minutes, my thoughts begin to move a little faster; a string of ideas, rather than random patches. My senses are also becoming keener again. I can hear the squeak of feet moving through the pristine corridor, coming towards the door to my room.  
  
Suddenly, it flies open and a nurse comes in, wheeling some kind of large plastic contraption behind her. My brain still isn't working properly. The nurse carefully closes the door behind her and turns to me.  
  
"Hello, Sherlock, how are you today?" She asks cheerily, a little too so. I don't bother to reply. What's the point anyway?  
  
She walks over to my bed and kneels down at eye-level with me. "Now, I need to give you a wash, to make sure all your...injuries stay clean. You probably haven't experienced it before, but don't worry, I'm used to it." She gently explains.  
  
I fill with dread as I realise what this means. I don't want to be washed. One of her words sticks in my mind: 'injuries'. What did she mean? I didn't remember being injured... Is that why I'm here? I got hurt by something? Maybe.  
  
Without waiting for my consent, she gets up and pulls the bedclothes gently back from me. I am wearing a hospital outfit.   
  
"We'll start with your face" The nurse says gently "Stay as still as you can, it may sting a bit, but you must be used to pain by now." She takes in a sharp breath. Even in my half-drugged state, I know she wasn't meant to say that.  
  
Moving on quickly, the nurse dips a piece of cloth into some water on the tray she wheeled in, before lightly pressing it to my right cheek. The cloth is soft but I take in air sharply as I feel the sting.  
  
"Sorry, its alright." The nurse coos, carefully rubbing the cloth over my cheek before moving to my forehead.  
  
Just before she moves on to my neck, she pauses and says "You've got more cuts here, so it might sting a bit more than your face did." Her eyes are apologetic but not pitiful.  
  
I am baffled. Why are there cuts on my face, and more on my neck? It would have to be a very strange accident for me to have cut my neck. Just as the nurse is about to place the newly-moistened cloth onto the skin of my neck, I stop her by asking "Why are there cuts on my neck?"  
  
She looks away from me for a second, her forehead creases as if she is battling with herself. After an age, she looks me straight in the eye and says "I can't tell you, yet. I'm sorry. I wish I could..."  
  
With that, the nurse places the cloth onto my neck with the utmost delicacy. Despite this, I have to clench my jaw to keep from wincing. The cuts to my neck must be deep and extensive to justify this much pain, even with morphine still flowing through my veins.  
  
After a few minutes, the nurse stops and waits for me to look up at her again before speaking "You're doing well. Now, though, I need to do your chest. I'm not going to lie to you. This will hurt. It'll hurt a lot. But I have to wash you, so you'll have to endure the pain."  
  
My jaw tightens again as she peels back my hospital shirt, revealing my bare chest. I try to lift my head to get a glimpse at the damage done to my body, but the nurse quickly blocks my views and gently pushes my head back onto the pillow. "Sorry" she explains "I'm under strict orders to let you see as little as possible."  
  
"Why?" I ask, baffled yet again.  
  
The nurse says nothing, simply pursing her lips and beginning. This time, I am unable to keep my pain inside, I let out a small whimper. The nurse continues to gently rub my chest with the cloth, going in small and careful circles. I grip the side of the bed with my right fist, but this only causes me more pain. I cry out in agony, and the nurse pauses. Releasing my grip from the bed rail hurts just as much, but I have to do it.  
  
The nurse shakes her head sadly, before turning to get a new cloth. She tries to hide the old one from me, but I can see the blood stains on it, my blood.  
  
After finishing my chest, I am informed by the nurse that the most painful part is coming next. She tells me that I need to turn onto my front. Due to the fact that I cannot even nod, I know this will be complete agony for me. At first, I try to turn on my own, but the tiniest movement causes me to cry out.  
  
Eventually, the nurse leaves and returns several minutes later with three strong-looking doctors.   
  
One of them looks me in the eye and bluntly says "We're going to flip you over as you can't do it yourself. It will likely hurt but please try not to upset the other patients with bloodcurdling cries."   
  
Before I can properly process what has been said, hands are firmly on my body and I am flipped onto my front. The pain is excruciating. I scream and then go limp as darkness consumes me.  
  
 _Then, I am lying on a table in a dim, musky room. The table is coated it sandpaper, rubbing my stomach raw with every movement. An unknown voice behind me says "Are you ready Sherlock?" I make no reply. I cry out as a whip is flung across my bare back, tearing at my skin. "No!" I hear a weak cry of John from somewhere behind me. "Shut up, or it'll be you next." Snarls my tormentor, before I feel metal slice into my exposed skin._  
  
"Hold him still!" "What's going on?" "Where's Mycroft?"  
These are the alarmed and desperate cries I awaken to. I can feel hands restraining my limbs and torso. I look up to see the nurse looking down at me, a mix of horror, disgust and fear on her face.  
  
"It's alright" she says as soothingly as she can between shaking breaths "Just stay still."  
  
"What happened?" I ask, beginning to shake.  
  
"You...you blacked out, when we flipped you over. Then, you started thrashing and screaming. We had to hold you down." The nurse answers cautiously, as if missing out certain details from her story.  
  
She turns to look at the strong men who still have a tight grip on my uncontrollably quivering body. "I think you can let go now." The nurse says. Their tight grip suddenly loosens, leaving me alone on the bed, lying face-down on the ruffled sheets.  
  
Before anyone can utter another word, I hear two sets of feet pounding down the corridor. They burst into the room, by the urgency, I know immediately that it's Mycroft and Lestrade.  
  
Lestrade runs round the bed until he's in my line of sight. He kneels down next to me and looks into my eyes. I look into his, still unable to stop myself from shaking. Mycroft joins him and reads my face immediately.  
  
"What did you see?" He asks, staring intently into my eyes.  
  
"I... I saw..." I begin to stutter.  
  
"Go on." Mycroft prompts more gently.  
  
"I was lying like this, on my front, but I was on a table. A table with sandpaper. There was a man, and he whipped me because I didn't answer his question. John said something and the man threatened him, before cutting into my back with a knife." At the vision of it, I screw my eyes tightly shut and begin to shake even more.  
  
"Knock him out." I hear my brother quietly murmur, then he loses patience "KNOCK HIM OUT!" he bellows.  
  
"It,s for the best, look at him." I hear Lestrade add, before a mask is placed over my mouth and nose. The gas is strong, after only two shuddering breaths, I am dead to the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Explanation**  
  
I have no idea how long I am out for, but when I awaken, I am lying on my back again and the room is a lot darker than it was before. At first, I think I am alone, until I hear someone shift in the chair next to my bed.  
  
"John?" I ask hopefully.  
  
"Mycroft." Comes the disappointing reply. "Are you ok?" He asks.  
  
The question surprises me. When did he start caring about my welfare? Now, apparently.  
  
"I don't know." I say, trying to convey the annoyance I feel at being told next to nothing.  
  
If Mycroft notices my tone, he chooses to ignore it, instead, he asks another question. "When you blacked out, and had those visions, what did you think they were?"  
  
I think back to it. The images felt like a terrible nightmare, but they seemed too vivid for that... "Not a nightmare, something more than a nightmare." I finally answer, realising it sounds both ridiculous and correct at the same time.   
  
Mycroft clears his throat and shifts in the chair again, he's nervous.  
  
"What?" I ask, desperately needing someone to explain everything.  
  
"Well.... Sherlock, do you truly remember nothing of what happened to you?" Mycroft replies after a pause.  
  
I screw my eyes shut and run over my last memory, of leaving 221B, in my head. I hear the door slam shut as John pulls the knocker. I hear our racing footsteps down the street, I hear John try to say something. Then, I get something new, something I didn't remember before: I feel a bag being thrust over my head, blocking out my vision.  
  
I gasp and open my eyes, a slight sweat on my forehead. Mycroft leans in "What is it?" He asks.  
  
"A bag. Someone put a bag over my head." I shakily say.  
  
Mycroft leans back, considering my reply. Slowly, he nods, then looks to the door and makes a slight gesture. At this, the door opens slowly and Lestrade cautiously enters. Why are they both so nervous? Are they going to tell me what's going on, and what happened to me?  
  
I watch as Lestrade crosses the room and takes a seat next to Mycroft. Then, they both turn and look me in the eye. I wait for someone to speak. Mycroft finally breaks the silence.  
  
"So, a bag was put over your head. Why might that have been?" He prompts my thoughts.  
  
It takes me much longer than it should have to formulate any ideas. Once the words come to me, I say "So that...I wouldn't be able to see them, and where I was going...?" I look at Mycroft, watching his face for any hint of a clue. I see only his mask, perfected over many years.  
  
"Which suggests?" He prompts again.  
  
"Someone didn't want to me to know where I was going?" I pause, then realise I must be almost there, as neither man utters another sound. I feel like I'm a child again, where Mycroft would teach me everything he knew. He would prompt my deductions, pointing out things I had missed and congratulating me when I got the right answer. Back then, he was brotherly and caring, now, he seemed to be turning back to our childhood ways once again.  
  
"So..." I snap back into the real world as Mycroft prompts me again.  
  
 "So, I must have been...abducted." I conclude suddenly. The word causes my stomach to drop, it fills me with fear. I had been abducted before. In fact, this must be the fourth time. Somehow, it was different this time though.  
  
Both men nod, watching me closely, to see if I give any reaction. I don't.  
  
"You and-" Mycroft stops himself, then quickly continues, trying to cover up what he was about to say. Still drowsy, I don't really notice his mistake. "You were abducted and held captive..."  
  
"For how long?" I ask.  
  
There is a pause, a look between the men, a nod, and then Lestrade answers "About 5 weeks."  
  
5 weeks. The longest I'd ever been held captive for before was one week. How did it take 5 weeks to find and free me, and why couldn't I remember anything of my time?  
  
Suddenly, I have another thought "That vision, it wasn't just a nightmare, was it?" I ask quickly.  
  
"No." Is the answer Mycroft provides. With my eyes, I beg him to continue, he does "It was most probably a flashback. A glimpse into how you were treated."  
  
A flashback. So, I wasn't just abducted, I was tortured. A sudden horror fills me "John was in that flashback. Does that mean he was..." I can't finish.  
  
"Yes. He was with you." Mycroft answers quickly, before Lestrade can give me a different answer.  
  
I lie silently for several minutes, eyes closed, trying to make sense of what I have been told. Still, I know there is something I'm not being told. As I become more awake, more aware, I realise it probably has something to do with John.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Another flashback**

Mycroft and Lestrade are silent for a few minutes, allowing me to process the information. I close my eyes because their concerned stares are off-putting. When I open them again, Lestrade speaks up.

"The thing is, Sherlock, it was very hard to find you, and even harder to get you out." He is even more nervous than before. I can tell immediately that bad news is coming. I watch, I wait.

"You were unconscious when we finally got to you, it took three of us to drag you out..." He is clearly delaying the point.

I run out of patience "Oh, just tell me what it is, clearly it's important." I say irritably.

Mycroft takes over. "Sherlock, the thing is...we didn't manage to get John out." His words hang in the air between us like dust that has been unsettled and needs to land. It dances around between existence and inexistence, lost, and without guidance. Then, the reality falls on me, like a huge weight pressing into my body.

"You saved me, but you didn't save John?" I demand, I need to be sure that I understand. It seems so unbelievable to me that it doesn't feel true.

"No, we didn't." Mycroft says, not meeting my eyes.

"Then why the hell are you two sat here with me?!" I burst out, taking both men by surprise.

"Its because" Lestrade explains slowly "we need you to find him."

"How am I meant to do that? I didn't even realise I'd been abducted! I can't remember a thing. All I know is that I was taken when a bloody bag was THRUST OVER MY HEAD!" I yell at the men before me.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft says, snapping me out of my anger. I look into his eyes. He has removed his mask, his face looks guilty and pleading, like a child who knows they've done wrong, but doesn't want to be punished.

"How...can I...find him?" I ask between heaving breaths.

"Your flashbacks." My brother simply says "They're the key, they can tell us so much."

"How?" I ask, feeling the anger boiling up inside me again.

"Because we don't know where John is, but your captor has reliably informed us that he told you where he was going to move to. We need you to remember. You're John's last hope."

I can't stand it. Mycroft didn't save John. Now, he's asking me to. I know I'm in no state to rescue John. I'm his last hope, and I'm useless.

Enraged, I try to hurl myself out of the bed at my equally useless brother. The pain from the sudden movement makes me scream as I collapse onto my knees. I reach forward, clawing at Mycroft's ankle.

Suddenly, firm hands are on my shoulders, they push me back onto the ground. I am pinned, I am trapped. Lestrade is on top of me, holding me down. The pressure, the trapped feeling, the powerful hands, they feel all too familiar. I shut my eyes.

_"Don't struggle, Sherlock. Daddy's got you safe." The tormenting voice of Jim Moriarty, my arch enemy, fills my head. Despite this, I continue to move and jerk, a desperate attempt to break free. "John!" I cry. There is no reply. Moriarty fills me in instead "Don't worry, Sherlock, John's just sleeping. Want to join him?" Before I can think of a reply, something hard and cold strikes my temple, knocking me out instantly._

I awaken to the sound of my own screams. At least three people are pressing me firmly into the floor of the hospital room. I am shaking uncontrollably yet again. Mycroft clasps my face in his hands. "Sherlock, it was another flashback. Tell me what you saw." He says surprisingly calmly, given the situation.

I swallow and take in huge lungfuls of air. I continue to shake, but know I need to speak. "Moriarty. He...he was there. Someone was holding me down, like Lestrade was then." I gulp and steel myself before continuing "I called for John, but Moriarty told me he was asleep. Then, he said I could join him, and knocked me out with a metal pole, or something."

"It was triggered by Greg holding you down?" He asks.

"Yes."

"Let him go." Mycroft says sternly. Immediately, I am freed. I continue to shake. As it slowly subsides, the pain sets in again and I close my eyes, blocking out the bright hospital lights and array of concerned faces.

Slowly, I feel strong but gentle hands slide under my body and carefully lift me off the floor. I groan as pain replaces my adrenaline and anger. Knowing that moving would worsen the discomfort, I remain as still as I can. After what feels like an age, I am placed down onto the bed.

"Breathe, Sherlock." I open my eyes again and look up. Above me, the nurse who washed me yesterday is speaking calming words.

I close my eyes again and try to breathe. My breaths are deep and shuddering.

_Suddenly, I can hear deep breaths next to me. I am in the dark. Coarse ropes bind my wrists and ankles mercilessly. A steady rumble tells me that we are in a moving van. "John?" I ask. "I'm here, Sherlock. I thought you were out cold, it scared me." There is a large bang and the van comes to a halt. The back doors are swung open and light floods the van, blinding me. "Open your eyes!" Moriarty says in a cheery but menacing voice._

I do as he says, but find myself back in the hospital room. I take in a deep sigh.

"This is good, Sherlock." Mycroft says, almost comfortingly.

"Why?" I shakily ask.

"It means you're remembering. It means we'll find John."


End file.
